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Feature Article of Tuesday, 5 July 2011

Columnist: Sakyi, Kwesi Atta

A Poem: Ode To Drug Dealers

*Let me sit my somewhere*

I see people go

I see people come

Is there anything happening hereabouts or thereabouts?

Oh, let me sit my somewhere

It’s no business of mine

To nosepoke into fires in the hearth

In other people’s homes

That’s bad manners, bad manners

So we’ve been told

From good habits of old

Which we mustn’t put on hold,

Rather enjoined steadfastly to uphold,

They could be roasting a toad

Or they could be smoking a roach

But then, none of my business to encroach,

They could be dancing to the kakaracha,

Oh, let me sit my somewhere

I’m not a cockroach,

But then the scent from a smoking toad,

Wafting on the air just across the road

Could be sickening and it gives cold comfort

Oh, my belly bottom is retching

And ready to implode

I fear my belly will cave in if I throw

So nobody can tell me something?

Here I am sitting my somewhere

I see them go to the Airport

To and fro

They go

To and fro

They come

Just like visitations to the teaching hospital

Yet, there is no dokita (doctor) around

Nor do norses (nurses) abound

I see strange strangers

I see weird ladies in fine laces

Crime is writ 3D on their faces

They seem people who go places

I smell a rat cooking in an African cauldron

Or could it be a python simmering in

Obe nla (big soup)

In a gargantuan African cooking pot?

Strange scents evoke fanciful imaginings

Of the goings-on and the goings-under

So nobody will say me something,

Anything juicy to quench my thirsty African curiosity?

But I get krokro (20/20) eyesight oh

And I get bloodhound olfactory nerves oh

Ibe, I get pin-pricked rabbit-like ears oh,

Only way the thing my eyes don see

My mouth no fit talk oh

My mouth dey fit shut like a clam oh

To and fro

Fro and to

They play seesaw with their entrée and exit

Like the tides at the shore

Ebb and flow,

They reap but do not sow

As they say, no one defecates without stooping,

To the Airport they go to and fro

But these don’t work at Airport

Neither do they work anywhere

Yet they drive German posh cars,

Eat Russian caviar, smoke Havana cigars,

Drink French Cognac, Scotch whisky, Italian

Wine and wear vintage Spanish or Moroccan leather

Shoes, even American stiletto–heeled shoes,

Besides, munch Hungarian sausage and English fish and chips,

They strut about with lazy bone girls,

Girls who dunno how to get a life,

They fit no sane man’s criteria for a wife

He-men adorn their bodies

With satanic tattoos and ensigns

They wear expensive garbs and habiliments

Fit for kings and queens

Yet, their outfit taste is an outrageous distaste –

Chains, rings, jewellery of sorts

Adorn ears, noses, necks, fingers, ankles and toes

In the wrong and most unlikely places,

Tongues, navels and genitalia also,

Above this cacophonous riot,

The never missing high society perfumes

Suffuse and gag the air,

They have affectation for the gang rag-tag,

They shit expensive shit oh, oga

Yet they covet my simpleton style,

My brother, my sister, these 419s are true to type,

Nowhere cool at all at all oh,

I bet my bottom, they envy my unsung stool

Perhaps, it has not stunk enough oh,

To merit the media limelight,

Perhaps, I need to do a great publicity stunt,

Today is party day,

They blare funky rap music at the loudest,

The way it happens all over the city

When there are funerals the Ghanaian way,

So are they partying or holding

Their own funereal funerals,

Before d-day when the storm breaks?

They dance the dance of the uneasy rich,

They fake fake happiness,

Oh my brother, my sister,

Their inside no cool at all at all oh,

They drive on the suicidal fast lane of life

Abi, but me, I dey my corner oh,

Let me sit my somewhere oh,

Ino be cockroach oh!

One day, yes it took only a day,

Their secret leapt out of the gate

Like a freshly caught fish out of the basket,

A kid brought from up country

Spilt the beans,

He let the cat out of the bag

Yes, he spewed the beans like hot potatoes,

It was indeed a birds’ whisper,

‘You know what, they cook magic powder

Day and night

So they get dollar power here and there,

They sell to throwers and couriers

At Kotoka International Airport (KIA)

Perimeter in Accra,

We count dollars day and night

In wads, rolls and bundles,

Oh, you can smell the dough in our domicile

Blah, blah, black sheep------------------------

Oh, so magic powder is secret of their

Dollar power?

Cocaine, they call it?

My brother, my sister,

Let me sit my somewhere,

Nowhere cool oh, at all, at all oh

I no ibe cockroach oh! And Ino be

Kakaracha or nkakaraka oh!

Cocaine is cooking and brewing a storm,

When cooked,

They will eat and shit and sneeze,

The scent will create a stench,

Soon, they will swoon and ‘quench’

With BNI and FBI hot on their trail,

They will shrink and resist drinks

Their tails will shrink between their legs,

They will gnaw at their fingernails

And their faces will become crescent–shaped

But me, they think I’m a snail and a stinker,

Yet we all go reach our destination,

Oga, let me sit my somewhere oh,

Where I see them go and come,

To and fro, to and fro

In East Legon and Spintex Road

They live in majestic mansions of the Gold Coast,

But me oh, Ino be son of a smoking gun

To be constantly on the run

I run no business of illicit rum

I will sit still on my bum

Whilst they go to and fro, to and fro,

Let me sit my somewhere,

Somewhere on the fence

Where I’m risk-averse

My decision has no reverse

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